


A Rose By Any Other Name

by TheWalkingGrimes



Series: Tales of District Four [23]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, F/M, Gen, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex Trafficking, liberal flower meanings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27814687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWalkingGrimes/pseuds/TheWalkingGrimes
Summary: The roses are for Katniss. Finnick knows they’re for Katniss.That doesn't make seeing them any easier.
Relationships: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair, Background Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark, Finnick Odair & Coriolanus Snow, Katniss Everdeen & Finnick Odair
Series: Tales of District Four [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018845
Comments: 1
Kudos: 52





	A Rose By Any Other Name

Escaping the confines of the District Thirteen bunker feels like coming up for air after being under the surface of the water for several minutes longer than he should.

Finnick takes a few deep lungfuls, feeling his shaking hands settle a little in his pockets. He gave Katniss his rope a while ago so he’s just picking at the threads along the seam, making little micro-knots with his fingernails. For just a moment, his brain flashes to what his prep-team would say if they could see the stubby, bloody messes that his nails have deteriorated into, and it’s almost enough to make him smile. 

Almost.

They make their way around the destroyed craters of the surface levels of District Thirteen. People around him are holding conversations but Finnick allows himself to give up on following it after a few moments. He’s been doing better about that - _had_ been doing better about that at least, until he’d been shoved into a bunker while bombs rained down overhead, with nothing to do but let his imagination run wild.

And his imagination is not a pretty place these days.

Then there’s Katniss. Finnick did his best to take care of her, after she revealed that she’d come to the same devastating realization that had initially driven him off the deep-end, he’d given her his rope and sat next to her and even tried to perk her up with some coffee and a few jokes. Coffee always settles his nerves but he’s afraid she might not be as used to it as he is, because he can see even from back here where he’s bringing up the rear - with gentle nudges from Cressida every few moments to make sure he keeps walking - that she’s more jittery than ever. 

Suddenly, everyone comes to a halt in front of him and before Finnick can even see what has spooked them, Katniss’s voice rises high and panicked above the group. 

“Don’t touch them! They’re for me!”

She sounds so genuinely frightened, the same edge of panic when she’d told them to run from the fog in the arena, that something instinctual snaps Finnick into focus and he finds himself quickly at her side, following her line of vision, ready to either eliminate the threat or drag her away from it.

For a moment, he’s stumped.

Flowers?

But the realization comes in stunning clarity, trampling over his confusion as if it never existed, leaving nothing but gaping horror.

_Roses._

Scattered over one of the bombed-out craters, looking as if they were lovingly dropped there. Two dozen roses. A present.

A message.

Katniss is saying something, stumbling through an explanation that Finnick doesn’t need because he’s all-too-familiar with this method of communication.

Not that he could hear her if he wanted to.

Because he’s not here anymore.

* * *

He’s in a gilded Capitol suite, the sounds of revelry winding down somewhere very, very far away. It all blurs together into one, raving mess of noise, sliding in and out of his ears like sand. Lights flicker on the back of his eyelids and he should open them, should stay alert in case the threat comes back, but he can’t. He _can’t._

A weight settles behind him and Finnick starts to cry - or continues to cry, he’s not sure if he ever stopped - because he really can’t do this _again_ but there’s no point in saying that because it didn’t do anything when he said it before. Nothing he said or did or screamed mattered.

There’s a hand that rests gently on his head and somehow his body still has the energy to flinch.

“Shhh.” The touch on his hair is odd, stroking in a way that feels almost paternal. The voice isn’t though - it sounds impatient. Finnick thinks he should be able to place the voice but can’t. “None of that.”

Finnick wishes he could sleep. Just close his eyes and drift away. Or better yet, he wishes he could wake up and for none of this to be real. 

“Mr. Underwind has returned home. Your duties for the night are completed.”

His duties - his _duties -_

The hand moves from his hair down to his lip, grazing over the fresh split where Crassus had hit him.

“I was disappointed when he informed me that you were not as agreeable as I had assured him you would be. Your agreeableness has always been your most valuable quality, Finnick.”

_Valuable. Value._

It all slides into place, and Finnick’s body goes impossibly colder when he realizes who is sitting on the bed behind him.

“However, I am not unreasonable. I understand that you may have been taken off-guard and an adjustment period may be necessary. I believe the time between now and the next Victory Tour should be sufficient, and you will be ready to continue your duties with not just agreeableness, but enthusiasm.”

Finnick wishes he could stop crying. 

The hand retracts from his face. There’s the sound of rustling - and his heart nearly _bursts_ in panic - and then something is dropped in front of him.

“For your mother. I was pleased to learn that she has flourished under the treatments so generously provided by the Capitol following your victory and her lungs have returned to full health. Do give her my best.”

The weight lifts off the bed and a few moments later there’s a quiet click of the door. 

Some after, Finnick wills himself to open his eyes and see what the President has left for him.

It’s a green rose.

_(green: health, prosperity, longevity)_

He doesn’t know what it means, but he still pulls himself over the edge of the bed and vomits onto the carpet. 

An Avox rushes in to clean it almost comically quickly, and Finnick can’t stop shaking.

“Sorry.” He tells her, certain that another bout is on its way. “Sorry sorry sorry-”

She stretches a tentative hand to him and there’s a moment - _kindness? pity? kinship? he’s not certain_ \- that passes between them before he hurls again.

* * *

The Peacekeepers shove him into some dark car, his hands cuffed, put a blindfold over his eyes, and in spite of his terror Finnick thinks this is all overkill. 

What do they think he’s going to do, run? Never mind that even in his panicked state he recognizes how unlikely escape would be - it’s not even _him_ that he’s scared for.

He expects them to lead him to some dark prison somewhere, or maybe even the Tribute Center, so Finnick is a little confused when they take off the blindfold and he’s in a fancy decorated office. 

They leave the handcuffs on, shove him down into a seat, and then lock the door behind him.

And leave him there to stew in his idiocy for _hours._

Finnick fiddles with the handcuffs, not because he thinks he can take them off or that it would do any good if he could, but because he will go insane without something to do with his hands. He’s always been a fidgeter his entire life, needing a way to channel all the excess energy thrumming under her skin through some sort of outlet. In the arena it made the other Careers think it meant he was nervous, that he always needed to be doing _something_ with his hands. 

It’s always driven his mother nuts. 

He gives up eventually, buries his face in his hands and tries to keep the hysterics at bay. Finnick can’t lose it yet. He has to keep it together, keep his mind in one piece because it’s his most valuable weapon, the one thing the Capitol hasn’t managed to turn against him. 

If there’s a chance - _if there’s even the slightest chance -_

The door clicks open and Finnick jerks up to see President Snow walking in, a disappointed crease between his brow.

“Sir-” Finnick starts, his voice sounding too much like a croak.

Snow holds up a hand. He sighs. “Finnick, I thought we had an understanding.”

“We do.” Finnick says quickly. “I wasn’t trying to break it. It wasn’t intentional-”

“Are you saying that you are not in control of your own actions?” Snow raises an eyebrow. “Because that’s highly concerning to me. If you cannot be trusted to be left alone with citizens of the Capitol-”

“I can-”

 _“Do_ not interrupt me.” Snow says pleasantly. “I don’t appreciate it. My time is valuable and I am already losing precious amounts of it having to clean up after the mess which _you_ have created.”

Finnick waits a few seconds to be sure Snow is done speaking before he replies, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. It was a mistake and it will never, _ever_ happen again. I promise.”

Snow looks at him, and Finnick can’t read anything from his expression.

“Please.” He adds, unable to stop an edge of desperation from creeping into his voice. “Please, I promise. I won’t ever make a mistake like that again. It was a one-time mishap. I’ll make sure it never happens again. Just, please…”

Don’t hurt them. Leave them out of this. Please, _please._

“It’s my mistake.” Finnick latches onto. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do to make up for it. I’ll do anything, literally _anything,_ and I’ll do it smiling.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Something flickers across Snow’s face - is it disgust? It may be. But Finnick doesn’t care how pathetic, how absolutely abhorrent he sounds as he begs for mercy. He’ll degrade and lower himself further than he would’ve thought humanly possible just to keep his family safe.

“Miss Clearview will not be requesting your company again.” Snow tells him, in a tone of finality. “She will be reimbursed not only for her _generous_ donation to the Capitol, but also for the trauma she endured and of course as an assurance for her discretion. It will cost the Capitol a hefty sum.”

“I’ll pay it.” Finnick replies. “However - however you want me to. In whatever way I can.”

“You will,” agrees Snow. “As a sign of good will, I will allow you to remain in the Capitol for an additional two months after the Games festivities have ended.”

Two months. Even as his stomach twists, Finnick finds his heart raising in relief. His mother’s life and his brother’s life are worth two months. They’re worth the rest of his life. 

_“Thank you.”_ Finnick says without a trace of sarcasm. “Thank you so much. Sir.”

“I have been known to be generous, on occasion.” Snow lifts something out of his pocket - a rose. “For your mother.”

He hands it to Finnick, who takes it in relief. He never gave the green rose to his mother but he remembers it clearly. At the time he’d perceived it as the threat it was, but now all he thinks is that it’s a sign from Snow that he will continue allowing her to live.

He’s so overcome with relief, certain that he’s successfully bargained for his family’s safety in exchange for two months of abuse, that he somehow doesn’t register that the rose is white, not green as the last one.

_(white: new beginnings, innocence_

_condolences.)_

* * *

  
  


_“So._ Finnick.” 

This is the first time Snow has been angry with him. He’d never realized it before, thought that Snow was furious with him the last time they met like this, but Finnick knows now that it was nothing compared to this.

Because the man in front of him is cold and dangerous and is looking at him in a way that he never has before. 

Not as if Finnick is a child, or a disobedient pet who has pissed on the rug. 

Rather, a threat who must be subdued.

“I would ask for an explanation as to why you thought that it would be in your interests to commit such a frankly _treasonous_ act when you are full aware of the consequences of a far more minor transgression. However, as I have told you before, my time is quite valuable and I prefer not to waste it waiting for you to exhaust yourself running through the litany of excuses you’ve no doubt spent the last few hours concocting. So let’s make this simple.”

Treason. Finnick glances down at his hands, which are not cuffed for some odd reason - not that they need to be, they’ve been shackled since he was fourteen, when he _volunteered_ for this - then back up at Snow. “I can agree to that.” As if he has a choice. As if there’s ever any choice.

“Your arrogance has always been my least favorite quality of yours. To a certain degree it was understandable when you were a child, since what else were you to believe with so many telling you how special you were, how _exceptional_ to win as young and as gloriously as you did? I had hoped with age that it would temper, as you came to understand the world and your place in it. Alas, you have disappointed me, not for the first time.”

His skin crawls as he remembers the last time Snow used that word. _Disappointed._

_His mother, still and frozen, like some kind of strange porcelain statue on that metal table. She looked so much more peaceful in death than any of the children he had butchered._

“Mr. President-”

 _“Do not interrupt me.”_ Snow nearly spits at him, and Finnick flinches. “Then there is also the matter of Mrs. Plintweather. Perhaps I should be offering you thanks, for discovering a chink in the armor and identifying her for me. Anyone who can be tempted into betraying their post by something as foolish and fleeting as _pleasure_ is someone who does not deserve the coveted position of Gamemaker.”

Finnick doesn’t dare question after Amalia Plintweather’s fate. He can’t afford it, can’t allow the guilt to drag him down.

(She was so trusting, so _stupid_ , it almost felt wrong. He’s never felt that before - never been the initiator before, never chosen this before.

He can’t afford to let himself question what that _means._

_Why?_

_Why did I do it?)_

“And of course, there is our dear Miss Cresta.”

It shouldn’t be so jarring to hear her name come out of Snow’s mouth. Of course he knows who she is - she’s a Tribute, no, a _Victor_ (has been, for a grand total of four hours). She’s as much a person to Snow now as Finnick is.

Bile pools in the back of his mouth.

“She was an acceptable Tribute, in the beginning.” Snow continues. “But of course, the Capitol has no use for a mad girl. District Four has more than enough _viable_ Victors. If our doctors are not able to fix her mind, I think it would be best for her to fade into the background… or perhaps disappear entirely.”

Whatever relief Finnick felt when Snow began suggesting that Annie would be forgotten, it vanishes as soon as the last words leave his blood-flecked mouth. _Disappear entirely._ When he was younger, seventeen and simply grateful for a second chance, he may have missed their meaning.

He barely knows her, doesn’t even think she likes him all that much.

And yet the idea of Annie Cresta _disappearing entirely_ is enough to make him speak up, before Snow has given him permission. “Every Victor has _some_ use, don’t they sir?” Finnick reasons, practiced at keeping the concern out of his voice. “As a cautionary tale, perhaps. Like the Morphling-addicts from Six, or Haymitch from Twelve. To remind the Districts that even our Victors are not infallible.”

Over the years, Finnick has become much better about reading Snow’s looks. But this one that he is being leveled with is indecipherable. 

Finally, Snow deigns to speak again. “This is true. However, there is still the matter of your own treasonous actions. Make no mistake, there will be consequences Finnick.”

His blood turns as icy as the sea of the Northern Peninsula. _Mags. Lotan. Celia._

Whose life has he traded for Annie’s?

_(Why? Why? Why did I do it?)_

“I understand.” Finnick answers, numb.

“Good. Then you are dismissed.” Snow nods at the door. 

He makes to exit, wondering if this is how sailors of old stories felt when they were forced to walk down a thin plank of wood toward their cold and unforgiving demise.

“Oh, and Finnick?”

He stops.

“I think it would be best to leave Miss Cresta’s recovery in the hands of the Capitol doctors and the other District Four Victors. I worry that this attachment you’ve formed toward her might be confusing for her and detrimental to her health. Your engagements should keep you occupied. I’ve asked my assistant to revise your schedule, and to make arrangements for you to remain in a guest suite at the Presidential manor when you are not otherwise engaged.”

Finnick nods as if he’s completely unbothered by the casual removal of any pretense of freedom that he had. _No Mags, no other Victors, not even Hapitha to keep me company._ As if he’s not utterly reliant on being able to surround himself with their companionship in order to keep a tentative grasp on his sanity. “For how long sir?”

“Until you can convince me that if I give you a longer leash, you won’t hang yourself on it.”

  
  


Amalia’s fate is not left a mystery for long. Over a month later, when Annie is deemed stable enough to do her interview and Finnick is finally allowed to return to the District Four quarters, her cold and accusational stare is the one that greets him. 

She hands him a single rose and disappears into the Avox quarters.

After Finnick gathers himself from the torrent of guilt that overwhelms him for several moments, he allows himself to look at the rose.

_(blue: caution, tread carefully.)_

There’s a note attached to the stem, in Snow’s flowing script.

_For our dear Miss Cresta._

Finnick throws it in the trash.

* * *

  
  


_It doesn’t make any sense._

Finnick sits at his kitchen table, tie undone, head in his hands. His scalp burns in the spots where he’s pulling, but he can’t stop, won’t stop until he figures this out.

There’s a reason. There’s always a reason. Snow doesn’t take life unless there’s a reason. He’s _poetic_ about it, even. 

_This_ \- this just feels wasteful.

Annie’s Victory Tour had been… fine, he supposes. There were a few minor hiccups at the beginning, but Finnick discovered that if he stayed close, offered her a grounding presence and a reminder from home, then Annie had an easier time remaining focused. The only time he left her side was when he was required to in the Capitol - and Finnick had admittedly been a little distracted during those appointments.

Is that the reason? Had someone complained and Finnick was punished for _neglecting his duties?_

But why the _fuck_ would Snow kill Annie’s father to punish him for that?

“Finnick?”

He jerks up to see Annie’s eyes - they have that vacant, faraway look that has clouded them ever since Peacekeepers came to her house to tell her that her father’s body had washed to shore, while her brother was still missing. 

But there’s an extra sheen of confusion, as she leads him wordlessly into her house and points to her living room. 

“You see it too, right?” She asks him. “That’s real?”

There’s no note attached to this one. Finnick’s throat is dry as he bends down to touch the single blue rose sitting on her coffee table. 

“Real,” he croaks. 

Annie’s face crinkles. Her fingers rip at the hem of her black dress, and Finnick isn’t sure if she’ll remember any of this. He doubts she’ll remember any of this entire day - his own mother’s funeral is a blur of waves and somber faces. 

“What does it mean?”

“Tread carefully.” She squints at him, and he elaborates. “The blue rose. It means caution, tread carefully.”

“And unattainable love.”

“What?” Finnick’s attention fully snaps to her, as she regards the rose.

“I remember now. The blue rose, it means unattainable, or unrequited love.” Annie frowns at the rose. “Who do you think it’s from? A secret admirer?”

He should tell her. He has to tell her. 

_Tread carefully._

“Possibly.” 

Annie takes the rose from him and violently tears the petals off. 

“Well they have terrible timing.” She says flatly, and retreats upstairs.

Finnick is left to stare at the petals on the floor.

_(his arm around Annie’s waist on national television, grounding her, offering her a safe and familiar place amidst all the old horrors being dragged up fresh and anew.)_

_(the weight of her sleeping head against his shoulder on the train, uncharacteristically trusting, Hapitha’s doubtful looks as she passes them by in Annie’s room.)_

_(“Finnick, let’s not rush this we have all night, don’t tell me you have somewhere else you’d rather be? Or…_ someone _else?_

_(blue: unattainable love.)_

_Oh. God._

* * *

The roses for Katniss are red and pink.

_(red: courage, beauty, love._

_Katniss_

_pink: gentle, sentimental, admiring._

_Peeta._

_A pair of lovers.)_

Finnick doesn’t know if Katniss is versed in the meanings of the roses, but he watches as she unravels in front of them. Everyone else is confused, darting glances around as their infallible Girl on Fire begins to fall apart with every aborted take of the propo. 

“Katniss, just this one line and you’re done today. I promise,” Cressida coaxes, ever the professional. “ ‘Thirteen’s alive and well and so am I.’ ” 

But while she might be alive she clearly isn’t well. Katniss’s lips press together tightly, her jaw clenching like she might vomit -

And then she begins crying.

Finnick feels a pang as discomfort sweeps over the crowd like a wave. This is his fault. She’d been going along so well until she figured out that every rebellious word that gets broadcasted for all of Panem to hear will be taken out on Peeta’s flesh. He’d of course figured it out instantly - for all that Katniss had been through in such a short time, she was still relatively inexperienced with how Snow’s mind worked - but kept it from her. Partly because he’d been asked to, but more importantly because Finnick didn’t want to inflict that pain on her. 

He wouldn’t wish this on anyone, especially not her. 

“What’s wrong with her?” Plutarch asks, almost impatiently.

And it’s that edge of impatience that makes Finnick nearly snap, because someone like Plutarch will _never fucking understand_ what Katniss is going through right now. “She’s figured out how Snow’s using Peeta.”

Katniss breaks down in Haymitch’s arms and quickly falls into hysterics. As she’s sedated, the camera crew starts packing the equipment away.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Plutarch demands. “We’ve still got to film _something.”_

Pollux looks over at the unconscious Katniss, then back at Plutarch, unimpressed.

But now Plutarch is turning to _him_ and: “Finnick - I know you said you didn’t want us to use your face, but it’s critical that we have _someone_ to prove that Thirteen survived the bombing, and it’ll look odd if we don’t have someone the Districts are familiar with -”

Finnick’s not listening. He’s staring at the roses, and even though he knows - _he knows_ \- they’re for Katniss, what if they’re not? 

What if the lovers are him and Annie?

_(“I was surprised to learn that you and Miss Cresta had engaged in an intimate relationship, when I was led to believe that her mental facilities left her incapable of such acts. But I would think that it stands to reason that if Miss Cresta is capable of consenting to intimate engagements with yourself, then she can with others as well.”_

_“... please. Don’t do this to her._ Please. _I’ll do anything.”_

 _“You seem to need to learn this lesson repeatedly,_ _therefore I will be clear with you Finnick. If I ever think that you are so much as_ considering _toeing the line, Annie Cresta will be brought to the Capitol, and she will be intimately acquainted with specific citizens here. I believe my old friend Crassus Underwind has expressed an interest in her. Do you understand me?”_

_“Yes.”)_

“Finnick?”

Visions of Annie in the Capitol swim in front of Finnick’s eyes, the roses blurring in the background. He sees her crying, laying on her side in a fetal position on a decadent Capitol bed, the sheet bunched up in her fists.

He sees Snow enter the room and stroke her hair. 

Affectionately, like a father.

The sugary coffee he drank that morning rebels against his stomach and coats the pink and red roses underneath his feet.

“I can’t.” Finnick gasps around the bile. “I can’t - I can’t - I can’t - I can’t -”

Something jabs into his arm and within moments he drifts off into peaceful sleep. 

  
  


* * *

_(In his dreams, he’s with Annie and Mags and they’ve all got armfuls of roses as they head down to the beach, their shoulders all brushing against each other, that simple touch saying home more than any place ever could. They're joined by Katniss, Peeta, Johanna, and Haymitch, each with their own rose cluster._

_They pile the roses on a beach and set them on fire.)_


End file.
